


Unsteady

by Terra5



Category: Tales of Vesperia
Genre: Character Study (ish), Lots of drinking, Other, just a sad old man being sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 23:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18271184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terra5/pseuds/Terra5
Summary: Raven goes drinking. Introspection ensues.





	Unsteady

**Author's Note:**

> My best friend wanted a Raven thing for her birthday, so I typed this out at 2:30 in the morning instead of sleeping for college.  
> Whoops.

_ Ah. To have a taste for the finer things in life. _

Raven's lips twitched up into a sardonic smirk as he held the bottle up to the low light of the tavern he'd sequestered himself in for the night. Amber liquid sloshed within its depths, distorting the candlelight and making it appear even dimmer than it actually was. A typical bottle of rotgut, barely worth pouring. It'd be easier to drink it straight from the bottle.

It'd probably get him drunk faster, too.

Old habits died hard, though, and he found himself going through the motions of pouring it out into a smaller cup. It was muscle memory at this point, his hands always remaining steady no matter how much poison he drank. Another thing he'd never managed to figure out; no matter how much his body tried to shake itself apart, he always had sure aim. It was probably a saying somewhere. Steady hands, steady heart, steady mind. Or maybe it would be 'steady hands make good decisions'?

'Steady hands take control'?

He was staring at the cup rather than drinking it, he realized, one of those 'steady hands' curled around it like it was a lifeline.

Maybe it was.

He raised it to his lips and tossed it back before he could change his mind, focusing on the familiar burn of the alcohol lingering in his throat. It stung in a good way, making all of the tension flow out of his shoulders, leaving him looser, lighter. Made him feel less like a man trapped in his own skin and more like a typical grubby tavern-goer, drinking for fun or just to wind down at the end of the day.

Raucous, offensively loud laughter burst out from another corner of the tavern as if on cue, and Raven rolled his eyes. Those idiots didn't know how good they had it. Not that he missed drinking with people or anything.

Really, he didn't! Everyone else was so _obnoxious_  about it, enough to grate on even his nerves, despite his own constant obnoxiousness. They'd just give him looks throughout the night, and he could set an emotional clock by his drinking 'buddies', he honestly could.

 

Another cup of rotgut, another easy lift of his wrist, another steady pull. A new bottle was set on his table.

 

Their expressions always went like this:

First, they'd be having fun, laughing, joking with him and making half-formed drinking challenges as Raven played his role and agreed to them all.

Then they'd get confused, once they started paying attention to him and the number of bottles collected on his side of the table, because they _s_ _wore_  they hadn't seen him drink those.

Then they'd get wary, watching as his hands stayed steady even as the world began to get maybe just a little more tolerable to exist in.

Then they’d start worrying, and that was the irritating part, when the bottles began to form a tiny barrier between him and the rest of the world, a wall protecting him and his cup as he scowled defiance in the general direction of his drinking ‘buddy’. They’d ask if he was okay, even as his vision began to swim and he’d slur out that of course, he was _f_ _ine_ , look, no shakes!

He never knew what the last step was, as his vision tunneled out and the night became a blur. He knew he’d wake up later, either being shaken awake by the owner of the bar or from hitting the floor of said bar, and his companion would be gone, never to drink with him again.

So yeah. It was more fun to drink alone. To let the background noise wash over him. To drain his cup with those steady hands, over and over. To flirt mindlessly with the pretty wait staff, call them “Darlin’” and “Sweetheart” and all those other little platitudes that made them flush and giggle and give him side eyes for the rest of the evening.

 

Another cup, another shot, still steady. New bottle.

 

Getting drunk was almost another personality trait at this point. He would tack it on to whoever it fit best that day. It was usually Raven, given that it fit him best. A sleazy old wanderer, whining and teasing and never serious. Drinking for him was just a part of life. Wake up, eat, flirt, wander, flirt some more, get drunk, sleep. Repeat ad infinitum, until even he sometimes believed it. The only discrepancy was the intensity with which he drank.

Other times it fit Schwann better. A war veteran, haunted by old horrors of the Great War. Winding down after months of being gone on yet another top secret mission for the Commandant. No one approached Schwann in bars, no matter how thick the bottle barrier got. He could practically hear their sympathy, hear their empty thanks for a war that so few of them knew anything about or even remembered. It was just the proper thing to do, given that he was a 'war hero' and a 'veteran' and a 'paragon of knighthood'.

The dead man used to only drink socially.

 

Cup, Shot, Steady. New bottle.

 

He lived in the moment whenever he could, focused on the here and the now of where he was. The laughter of men a few tables down. The color of the table, unidentifiable stains giving it ‘character’ (what a joke). A quick flip of a skirt from a barmaid who got a little too enthusiastic about serving her next customer, a flash of the soft, creamy skin of her thighs.

Nice.

He eyed her appreciatively for a moment, then settled himself back into the comfort of his alcoholic haze.

Sometimes, he’d let his mind wander if he was feeling particularly masochistic. He’d let himself backtrack, examine memories like treasures in a castle. Looking, admiring, but never touching. Getting too close wasn’t allowed, and any attempts were quickly and brutally rebuffed. It was dangerous, getting too close to his memories. Too many of them were jumbled up, miscatagorized by whoever he’d been pretending to be at the time. Was it Raven, patrolling the grounds of the castle and making notes of all the little bolt holes? Was it Schwann, making good use of said bolt holes to spy on the Council?

Was it the dead man, making note of places he could hide from his Lieutenant?

Like he ever could, she always managed to find him no matter where he hid. Always so serious, unless he’d managed to get himself in a real pickle, his limbs all smushed together as he tried to hide from her sight and she would take one look at him and laugh her face would light up like the sun rising like spring like cloudless skies endless smiling beautiful lovelygorgeous _caseycaseycasey_

 

Fuck the cup. New bottle.

 

New bottle.

 

New….

 

….

 

He wakes up outside.

It’s dawn.

He’s laying on the strip of greenery outside the tavern, flat on his back. His mouth tastes like something died in it, and there’s a layer of thick fuzz over everything; his tongue, his teeth, his skin, his vision. He’s trapped in an ethereal moment, where the light, delicate blue of the day is slowly, so slowly, bleeding into the deep blue-black of the night.

There are stars above him.

Brave Vesperia is above him.

Its light is comforting, and he watches it until it fades from his sight (damn these old eyes).

He can hear birdsong nearby, and his lips twitch upward.

Raven sits up, letting out a soft, agonized groan. He should get going soon. Yuri and the others would be waiting for him. He lifts a hand to his head, taking a moment to examine it.

It doesn’t shake.

He’s good to keep moving.

So that’s what he does.


End file.
